Worse Things
by Wildcard
Summary: There are worse things than death. There's nothing worse than love. YamiYugi - probably the only fic with that pairing that I'll ever write.


Worse Things 

There are worse things than death. 

There's nothing than worse than love. 

Although, some nights, insomnia comes close. 

This isn't one of those nights. I may be awake, but it's deliberate. I'm giving myself the time to enjoy the sight of my sleeping other - a sight that I see too rarely, and then too shortly. He looks peaceful when he rests, the edges of his eyes soften, the sharp line of his cheekbones fade, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards. 

This is one of those nights where love is most definitely kicking insomnia's metaphorical butt. 

This is also one of those nights without a moon. When he was little he wept to see the moon missing from the sky. Without his lucky talisman, his sliver of hope in a dark place, he had no faith. The stars themselves twinkled brighter, but he had no eyes for them - all he wanted was the moon. 

He is still like that. Perhaps not so caught up in superstitions of his own devising, but still obsessed with the untouchable, aiming for the unreachable. He doesn't realize it though, if he did he might stop, and then I'd stop as well. Stop loving him, that is. 

Sometimes I think that's the only reason I love him, the boundless faith, and self-confidence he has. Self-confidence is an understatement, in anyone else it would be considered arrogance. In him however...it's overlooked, just as they overlook his conviction that everything will go his way because the world wouldn't be so cruel as to do otherwise.

Never mind that in a far-off land, a child was blinded from working fourteen hour days to make the brand-name sneakers that he covets - and yes, he is enough of a snob to buy into the whole brand-name game. Never mind that the money for the sneakers which so conveniently had been lost under his seat in the movie theatre might have belonged to some poor, retired person who was barely surviving on his/her meager pension. Never mind that the saleslady who sold him the shoes had blisters on her feet from standing all day, a child at home, and no other family to speak of. None of that mattered to him, after all, he got his sneakers. 

I did try to tell him all that, holding him gently, like the fragile (or not so fragile) work of art that he is. He looked at me with his huge innocent eyes and said: "Well, that's all very sad, but there's nothing I can do about it." Nothing indeed. He can't go and demonstrate against child labor, he can't return the money to a lost-and-found, he can't make the saleslady's life easier by choosing the pair of sneakers himself instead of making her run around looking for the right size. How foolish of me to ask him to shoulder some responsibility for his actions; after all there's nothing he can do. Is there?  

That's my role, guardian, protector, surrogate parent, lover, call me whatever you like, my actions are the same no matter what label you apply to them. They wouldn't be if I acted upon my thoughts, but I don't need to everything has been delineated too clearly for individuals to ponder their role. 

Has there ever been a platypus that tried to solve itself, that decided it wouldn't lay eggs, that it would fly instead? I think not. Has there ever been a mantis that didn't eat her mate, that settled down with him and raised a clutch of eggs? I think not. Has there ever been a human, who stopped pretending to have a spark of the divine inside him, and surrendered peacefully to his own mortality? I think not. Then again, perhaps I think wrongly. 

The soft breaths against my arm seem to say deny that, a plea for the entire human race, for compassion, for mercy - a plea that is insufferably arrogant and presumptuous in its belief that it can encompass the wide variety of humans, and speak for them all. Speak for them all and save them all. I might save him, if only to watch his face as the others fall. Would he show pain at their loss, shame for not falling with them, gratitude for being saved, or even dark pride at surviving where the others - so much more overtly strong, so much more capable looking - where the others fell? 

To arrange that I'd have to create an abyss first. Not that it would be hard though. Hard is lying here, motionless, trying to be a pillow. Of all things - a pillow. How the mighty have fallen. Too scared to shift and disturb his restless sleep, I have to wait here, in a cramped, uncomfortable position. This is my punishment. This is my Hell. 

This is proof that there is something worse than death - and it's called love. 

~Fin~

Author's Notes: Seeing as I am cursed with insomnia, I'm taking advantage of it to write up a few stories with insomniac characters – I'll finish this trilogy off with a nice Malik / Marik oneshot, then return to my usual humor stories. 


End file.
